


in Rome

by Code16



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe- Medievalesque, Class Issues, Honorifics, Kneeling, Miscommunication, Other, Sharing a Bed, might have more chapters but might also not have any more chapters, protocol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:09:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16
Summary: “You’re not a servant.” If it weren’t obvious by his attire, it would be more than obvious by his actions. Classless, Harold recalls they call them here, stripped of their status for some transgression. 
“No, sir.”
“Do you have a name?” Harold asks. That seems to take the man by surprise, somewhat. 
“John, sir.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted on tumblr.
> 
> Content warnings: Harold is kind of really clueless (and does a few things that aren’t the best, which he also finds thus) and this leads to some rather unpleasantness for John in spite of Harold having no intentions to be the instrument of them (though John’d probably describe himself as having a better night than he tends to be used to, if asked). 
> 
> no rape happens, but its existence in the larger verse is pretty clear.
> 
> if you find awkward miscommunications uncomfortable, you might not like this (though awkward isn’t how I’d describe it, in this case).
> 
>  
> 
> Note: I know literally 0 about fires and stuff and am making everything up.

It feels to Harold like a somewhat excessive amount of time has passed before there is a knock at the door.

“Enter.” He lays his book aside but doesn’t rise. As the owners of his door to a considerably greater extent than he is, he’s fairly certain his visitors will be able to open it, and protocol will demand quite a large amount of standing from him over the coming days. It seems prudent to guard his reserves.

The door opens to one of the guard, who taps his breastplate in a salute. “Your Excellency. You requested an attendant?”

“I did.” Given a full scope of choices, Harold would have highly prefered his own hired assistants, or, failing that, to simply manage for himself. But the latter was hardly possible anymore, and Nathan had wholly vetoed the former. 

“I know you don’t like it Harold, but that’s how things are done in the North. The negotiations are our priority. I’m sure whatever servant they give you will start your fire just fine.”  _ It’s not their ability I’m concerned about _ , Harold hadn’t said. 

Though as it seems, perhaps punctuality should have been a more pressing concern. He’d arrived in his rooms - not his final rooms, Mr. Snow had assured him, _my deepest apologies,_ _your early arrival caught us somewhat by surprise, and with the Decima delegation arriving only tomorrow the preparation has not been quite completed_ \- to find, in fact, no servant at all, and his escort had departed immediately upon delivering him and his belongings, Mr. Snow looking preoccupied and the footmen following in his wake. Which was, Harold thought, quite alright, perhaps even preferable, excepting that an hour later none still seemed to be forthcoming, and however much he might dislike it, services like a tended fire and wash water have to him become both quite indispensable and quite impossible without assistance. 

The bell by his bed, once Harold had discovered it, seemed not to summon a servant either, and while the guard who’d arrived had declared himself at Harold’s service, Harold has learned enough of ‘how things are done in the North’ to know requesting the guard’s services in this respect would be, as Nathan had termed it ‘not done’.  At least sending the guard  _ for _ a servant appears to be done, even if Harold’s frustration at apparent inefficiency was rising rather before the time this turned out to require.

Still, the estate is busy, and in any case none of this is the fault of this present guard, who certainly does not deserve to bear the brunt of Harold’s irritation. He levels his voice, gives it the same politeness he might have given for his own staff.

“Is one to be sent soon?”

“He’s here, Your Excellency. Our apologies for keeping you waiting.“ The guard moves aside. A man in gray clothes, gaze lowered and, Harold notices after a moment, barefoot, steps around the doorframe in his place. “Your service, your Excellency,” says the guard and lets the door swing shut.

 

Potential greetings and requests that he’d had the time to compose tangle abruptly with new questions in Harold’s mind, but before he can as much as attempt one of them the gray clad man drops to his knees, ducking his head to the ground. 

“There’s no need for that.” If having to engage in protocols himself is tedious, seeing such extreme forms of it performed for his sake is simply awkward as well as disagreeable, like a suit of clothing fitted and styled for another that he had somehow been made to don. The man straightens up, still on his knees, still without so much as looking up.

“You’re not a servant.” If it weren’t obvious by his attire, it would be more than obvious by his actions. Classless, Harold recalls they call them here, stripped of their status for some transgression. 

“No, sir.” His voice is hoarse, rough, like he’d been recently shouting, or received an injury. There’s something to his body as he says it, like an almost cringe that’s held away. Perhaps he’s worried that Harold will berate him for the divergence. But if the guard is not to blame for any of this, this man is clearly even less so. 

“Do you have a name?” Harold asks instead. That seems to take the man by surprise, somewhat. 

“John, sir.”

“John. Can you tend a fire?”

“Yes, sir.” Harold doesn’t image he’d be able to ask the man to desist from the honorific. At least it isn’t the Your Excellency, if it’s going to come every sentence. He lists out the rest of his requirements. John confirms every one, still neither getting up not moving, remaining thus even once Harold has fallen silent. 

“The fire?” Harold reminds him, looking at it. While it’s not quite critical yet, if it goes out it’ll be only further trouble. John jumps up so fast Harold is somewhat surprised he doesn’t fall over. He goes through the list of tasks just as quickly. (Somewhat acerbically, Harold wonders if he’s getting the best service on the estate). He returns to his knees when he’s finished, silent and without indication of further movement. 

“You can go now. I’d appreciate if someone would come at the last bell to bank the fire, and I’ll need further service in the morning, but there’s no need for you to stay in the meantime.” There’s that held back cringe again in John’s posture. 

“I’ve been placed at your service, sir.” He swallows. “I won’t disturb you sir, if you don’t want me. I can stand in the hallway if my presence is an imposition to you, sir.”  _ Yes it quite is, _ some part of Harold wants to say - there’s a reason he’s made his own rooms private, even his assistants entering only when absolutely necessary, whatever jokes Nathan wanted to make about him being ‘lonely’. Given the circumstances of travel, he’d been particularly looking forward to the few hours of isolation once again. But he’s certainly not about to send someone to stand in the hall, and whatever ‘placed at your service’ might mean here, the ‘I’m not going to leave’ seems altogether implied. He resigns himself with an internal sigh. As there seems no possibility to be spared inconveniences, perhaps he should be grateful for their current limited magnitudes.

“Just be quiet please,” Harold says aloud. Adds, a moment later, “and bring me my satchel, if you will, and draw this table closer.” If the man must be here, at least Harold might have the use of his presence. John goes back to his knees again after, this time close to the corner furthest from Harold. That doesn’t seem comfortable, but it hardly seems appropriate for Harold to nitpick; he adjusts the light and immerses himself in his papers.

 

An unfortunate problem with being used to solitude is that there are concerns he can forget to think of. He’s finished with his papers and begun his nightly rituals when a soon to be rather immediate one presents itself to him.

“Where were you planning to sleep?” he directs to John, who’d risen when he did, come around to bank the fire when Harold proceeded with his preparations, and now stands back at his corner. John looks down at the floor, which he’s been doing nearly unceasingly when not performing tasks, but this time a motion seems to intimate something additional. Which is ridiculous, whatever their customs are here. The floor is both hard and cold, and the small rug John had been kneeling on would be nowhere near enough to contain his whole frame.

“At least fetch a mat for yourself,” Harold suggests, after a moment of no further response. The cringe returns yet again.

“They wouldn’t let me into stores, sir.” Harold sighs internally again. He supposes this is quite his own fault, altogether, for not thinking of this earlier (though it might have been considerate of the man to at least  _ remind _ him). And he’s had (and survived) his youth’s worth of the far less expensive class of inns, however much he might not have chosen to repeat the experience. “I’m very sorry to displease you, sir.” John inserts in the silence.  _ I’m not displeased, I’m thinking _ , Harold nearly snaps - and isn’t this precisely why he so prefers his solitude - but reigns himself in in time again. 

“I’m not displeased, I’m merely in thought,” comes out in a more properly level tone. “And you will share the bed with me,” he adds, hoping his control of his voice is adequate. It is not John, he reminds himself, that is his irritation's source, so he should hardly be its target.  

John’s expression, what of it Harold can read in his face and body, goes complicated for a moment.

“Yes, sir.” This is, quite quickly, approaching Harold’s capacity for such questions’ management. (Which is, of course, why it is of such higher efficiency for them to be  _ delegated _ , and curse Nathan yet again for this ludicrous endeavor).

“Do you have an objection to the bed?” His voice might be overly acerbic, after all. John looks like he almost jumps.

“No sir. I’m sorry sir.” That seems to be resolved at least, then (and if John is still making strange expressions, let him do what Harold has been and try speaking aloud.) Harold returns to his rituals. 

“You’ll need to undress,” he points out to John some minutes later. Whatever their sleeping customs here, no clothing with the grime of the estate is making a place in Harold’s bed.

“Yes sir. I’m sorry sir.” Harold glances at John barely a moment afterwards - he’s taken off his spectacles, so John is mostly an arrangement of blurs - to find him evidently with the task completed, his clothes removed and folded, his hands seeming in the vicinity of his underclothes. Apparently John notices the look. “Should I-” he pauses. “Should I prepare myself, sir?” Understanding takes Harold a moment (Nathan would probably have made a joke, were he here. But of course Nathan would likely have dealt with this entire situation to a degree considerably more effective and proper, and isn’t that just the point.)

“No,” he snaps, the realization hitting like a spark. “And-” (John is trying to push his underclothes  _ down _ , and heavens what did they teach the attendants here) “-stop that! A shared bed is not an invitation to sexual contact; when I am in bed I prefer to  _ sleep _ .” John jumps entirely indisputably this time, then starts shaking in place. Harold has a brief moment of further annoyance (couldn’t they have sent him a less skittish attendant; he’d hardly even raised his voice), then is hit by a carriage of guilt. How many times had he rebuked Nathan for letting his temper affect the staff, and now here he is. And on a delegation no less.

“I apologize,” he says, rubbing his head where it has started aching. “I’ve had a rather trying day and - never mind. That was quite uncalled for of me. I’m sorry I startled you. Please keep to one side of the bed and don’t disturb me, and we should be perfectly fine.” John - looks more confused than anything else Harold might discern, but he stops trying to strip his underclothes off. And Harold is somewhat beyond further discernment at this point. “Get in the bed please and close your eyes. I prefer not to be watched when I undress.” John obeys, hesitating momentarily but proceeding. Harold changes into his own nightrobes, extinguishes all but the final lights. 

The bed, at least, is soft, and seems perfectly wide enough for both for them, and John neither stirs nor makes any further attempts at - anything - from the other side. Perhaps he can get some rest before any further social dances, Harold considers, before he is, without much further deferrment, asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.


End file.
